


Trust

by AllTheBellsInVenice



Series: His Silence [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (fake) knife play, BDSM, Blindfolds, Domme!Molly, F/M, Mindfuck, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, True Love, Wax Play, doing penance, remedial domestic service, sub!Sherlock, unusual morgue supplies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 04:01:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8313241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllTheBellsInVenice/pseuds/AllTheBellsInVenice





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [All Sherlollians](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=All+Sherlollians).



The black door banged downstairs, and behind his lowered eyelids Sherlock saw the brass numbers flash gold in the autumn sun as the door closed behind her. The rug itched under his bare knees. Little footsteps in the hall, on his stairs. Fourteen, fifteen-creak, sixteen, seventeen. He kept his eyes down as she entered. 

“Oh, hello, Sherlock.” So gentle, sweet. He bit his lip. A jingle as she dropped her bag on the sofa, the shuffle of scarf and coat. Her tan coat, by the murmur of its nylon fabric, the coat she’d bought two years ago, in February, after he’d tossed out some comment about her grotty old one looking as though she’d worn it since primary school. Sherlock gave a sigh. He well deserved this. 

“Hello, Mistress,” he said humbly, studying the long, knobby hands that lay quiescent on the firm pale flesh of his thighs. “Is the flat acceptable?” 

“I’ll just take a look,” she said lightly. Whispers of movement through the kitchen, a momentary silence that was surely her peek into his bathroom (did she see he’d scrubbed the tub?), the whine of hinges as she eased open the door to his bedroom to ensure he’d prepared it to her specifications. The tiny plastic tick of his thermostat as she turned it up even more. Last of all her slow steps around his sitting room, no doubt running a finger over the skull painting, then checking under his desk for detritus and loose sheet music. 

Last of all she curled into his chair with a creak of leather, so close beside him that he could smell her perfume (Delices de Cartier, her favourite as long as he’d known her) wafting above the scent of roasted dust from his hoovering. “Clean enough. Well done, pet,” she said, and threaded her fingers into his curls. 

Finally, finally. Sherlock’s lips parted, and he moaned without sound. 

Those fingers withdrew, leaving him bereft. “Thank me.” 

“Thank you, Mistress,” he said, wishing he dared look at her now; surely her chestnut hair was charmingly tousled, her cheeks and upturned nose still pink from the chill outside. 

“Good boy. Hold still.” The soft blindfold settled over his eyes, pulled firm. 

He waited for her next command, and it was not long in coming. “Up,” she told him, taking his hand to steady him. “Let me look at you. Oh, you’re lovely.” A breath of cherries and decomposing flesh and pink pepper, oh, Molly. Her hands at his waist, his neck, drawing him down for a kiss that was still shy, somehow, though he’d shown her everything. Hadn’t he? But—

She shifted suddenly and landed a swat on his bare arse. “Stop thinking,” she said, then laid that hot hand tenderly on his cheek. “Try.”

“I will try,” he promised, and meant it.

“We’re going to the kitchen. You did wipe the table carefully?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but guided him until his bare feet felt the slight stick of the lino. “Turn ‘round.” 

She pressed him backward so he leaned against the table, then farther back until he lay flat, with the edge of the table biting the thin skin behind his knees. “Arms at your sides,” Molly told him, and he obeyed, though the position seemed to press his belly and pelvis upward, so vulnerable, served up on a platter for her. The table was cold; he shivered. 

Molly was quiet for a time, then by his ear came the flare and sulphur-stink of a match. Its heat licked his cheekbone for an instant—cruel girl—but now he smelt paraffin, the same sort of plain white wax Molly dealt with in the lab as she examined tumour specimens that had been embedded with it. Barts must purchase the stuff in great blocks—

A snap of pain at his cheek made him gasp aloud, then her lips were against his. “Stop…thinking.” 

“I’m sorry,” he said into her mouth, and she slapped him again, carefully. Sherlock’s cock stirred. 

“I know you’re sorry. But don’t worry, beautiful pet. I’ll give you something to think about.” The crack of a bottle top, then warmth spread in the hollow of his chest. She stroked the hot oil over his body hair, stroked it over his nipples. He could not help but arch toward her touch; she tittered.

From the countertop came a sound Sherlock could not quite place, like boiled sweets pouring into a bowl. “We’ll just set that aside for now,” she said cheerfully, and returned to him. “Because I think this first bit is just…about…ready.” 

A drop of pain blossomed on his oiled skin, then another; then a molten pool of it spread over his chest, cooling immediately but leaving him sore. The faint petrol scent of hot paraffin invaded his nose, and his breath came faster. 

“Glad you’re not screaming,” she said, her sweet voice belying the words. “Mostly glad, anyway! Let’s try a bit more.”

Hot wax hit him harder this time, spattered—a pour from a height. She must have lit several candles, to have so much to give him. She dribbled the wax onto his nipple—low, soft, and so very hot—and Sherlock yelped and twisted away. 

“I’ll strap you to this table, pet,” she said, while he hoped for the intimacy of another slap. Hoped in vain. “So humiliating. Don’t make me do that to you.”

“Yes, Mistress.” He gripped the sides of the table. 

Before long his hands were shaking, his entire body rigid with apprehension—not excepting his cock, which throbbed hard between his legs in allegro rhythm with his racing heart. For Molly had just smoothed oil into his pubic hair and was now gaily dripping wax onto his belly, into the angled grooves of his pelvis—a close pour, near to burning. He knew what must come soon, and feared it. 

“Sherlock. Do you trust me?” his mistress asked as his pain glowed lower, then lower still. 

He swallowed hard. “Yes, Molly. I trust you.” 

He’d deduced she must be holding a candle in each hand, so as to have one to pour from while the other melted, but she set one aside now. “Don’t move, pet. You can do this. For me.” 

“Yes, Mistress.” Yes, he could. For her.

Her little hand was on his cock, easing back his foreskin. The first molten drops, so beautifully controlled by her surgeon’s hands, landed on the silken flesh just above his root. Sherlock held himself perfectly motionless. For her.

A hard drop and spatter from high above, not so hot, but the impact made him twitch. For her…

A tiny clink—something else was happening—but now her wax crept perilously close to his exquisitely sensitive frenulum. Ohgodohgodohgod—

“I trust you,” he gasped, needing to tell her again. 

“I know,” she replied, and touched searing agony to his plum-dark glans.

But the pain did not stop, the wax was not cooling as it ought, oh Christ, Molly had found a way to break the laws of thermodynamics, just to torment him—it would truly burn—he was in agony—

For her. He sobbed, but did not flinch away. He was hers, completely.

“Good boy,” he heard, from somewhere in the heavens.

Then the first frigid drop rolled down his shaft, then another, and her wrist dripped on his leg—freezing cold, unmistakably. Sherlock jerked with astonishment, then laughed aloud into the dark behind his blindfold. She joined in, her girlish giggle tinkling above his deep chuckles. 

“Ice,” he said, and grinned his admiration. “Scrambled the thermoreceptors in my skin. You’re an evil bird.”

“Aren’t I?” She threw the ice cube back into the bowl with a clang. A freezing hand at his cheek, a wet thumb rubbing across his lower lip, and she kissed him, long and lingeringly, until he was calm again.

“Now,” she said brightly, and he heard the ring of a blade. “Let’s clean you up. Don’t move!”

Sherlock’s grin fell like a stone. He should have known she’d give him no mercy. At least he need not beg for it. 

He was almost sure she was using a dulled knife to scrape the oily wax from his skin, but he lay as still as he could, just in case, until most of it was off him and she was towelling the protective oil from his body hair. At last her hand slipped into his. “Up, pet.” 

Suppressing a groan, he curled his body and stood; bits of wax crunched under his feet. But she drew him into the bedroom, then shut the door behind. She guided his hand to his headboard, left it there. “Wait.”

The whisper of fabric over skin, the thunk of her shoes. A zip, more rustling. The snap of soft elastic. Silence. He swayed on his feet, waiting, hoping, until at last her little fingers plucked away his blindfold. 

His eyes opened onto utter blackness, just as he’d dreaded; she hadn’t turned on his lamp, and not a speck of light could get past the heavy curtains and tape and black paper he’d so painstakingly installed, at her direction. “Mistress,” he could not help saying as he groped to his knees before her. “Please.” 

“Not yet,” she said, though she cradled his face against her warm belly. “You haven’t earned the right to see me like this.” 

“I want—I need to know what you look like. Underneath.” 

“Not yet,” she said again. “You have a lot to make up for, Sherlock.” 

He sagged against her. “I know, Mistress.” And he did. Ever since that night a year ago, when he’d stumbled into her lab trailing his own blood and shuddering with adrenaline after coming far too close to death. Under terror’s cold chemical influence, he’d babbled out what was surely the most pitiable confession of love ever uttered by a Holmes; she had merely listened, sober and quiet as she sutured his arm. He’d lapsed into an appalled silence, certain she would never respect him again; but Molly had set down her needle, tugged off her blue gloves, and pulled him into the darkened supply closet for a bout of raw, hungry sex; the animal in him howled its savage joy. And then Molly, serenely unconcerned that she was smeared with his blood and semen, had taken his face between her hands and intimated that _I’ve never stopped loving you, Sherlock Holmes._

Overwhelmed, he’d run from her. Run to Baker Street, where he proceeded to work himself into a lather of shame and disbelief. Come the morning he’d fled for the continent, needing to put the Channel between himself and this impossibility. 

Weeks later he was abject at her feet, hating himself for doubting her. And Molly had taken him back. But this time she set down strict conditions, one of which was that he prove he trusted her. He’d had a few ideas about how to accomplish that, ideas she’d taken to with much…enthusiasm. Yet another proof that Doctor Molly Hooper, MBBS, MRCP, FRCPath, was an earthly angel. 

He took a great breath of her: cherries and amber and pink pepper and clean sweat and the musk of her desire. She gripped him, pulled him up to her so their mouths could meet, wet and heat and silken tongues and her tight little whimpers of wanting. His hands were everywhere on her skin. Her slender arms twined about his neck; his knee knocked awkwardly against her leg so that they both muttered an apology in the same moment. He seized her wrist and pulled her hard against him so that they both toppled onto his bed. 

She shoved him over so he ended up sprawled diagonally, the footboard at his left shoulder; it creaked as she grabbed it, levering herself up to smear her creamy-wet cunt against his face.

Eagerly he craned his mouth wide and slipped his tongue inside his Molly, deluged by the familiar taste of her. She purred and tossed her head; the tips of her loose hair tickled his hands at her waist. “Use your teeth,” she murmured to the ceiling. “On my clit.” And gently he angled his top teeth so she could tilt her hips and begin a slow, delicate grind. This made his jaw ache, but she loved it best.

Fleetingly he wondered again what her pussy looked like, whether it was pink at the edges and deep rose at its heart, whether it pouted like a peach without the pressure of his fingers or mouth or cock. He already knew she trimmed it weekly to soft fleece, that she shaved her legs twice a week (once in the winter) and hardly bothered with her underarms, and that she let herself use her breathtakingly expensive honey soap (from that reeking shop on Oxford Street) at weekends, for a treat. He stroked her skin, savouring it, feeling once more that tiny bump at her hip—was it a mole, a cherry haemangioma? For all he knew Molly was splashed with birthmarks from shoulder to knee; he’d never seen more of her. Never would, until she deemed him worthy—

Molly keened above him. “I’m close. Your—do that thing—“ And swiftly Sherlock reached underneath and thrust two fingers deep inside her, making her shriek and shake apart atop him. He never stopped licking her, not until she sagged over the footboard and bade him stop. 

“Want you inside me.” She clambered backward, her small hands pressing on his chest in an alternating pattern; he gave a helpless cry as she sheathed him inside her wet heat and began to ride. “Don’t come.” 

He groaned to tell her how difficult it would be, this feat she demanded of him; she was so sweetly tight, and worse, she loved him. He felt her love every day, in the crackle of the thick plastic bags she’d entrust to his dubious care whenever he asked her for bits of human beings; he inhaled her love in the curl of steam from the horrendous coffee she carried up from the caff. Sensed it in the way she’d look at him sidelong across the scopes and Petri dishes and bottles of formalin, and in the delicious hurt of his body after she’d taken her pleasure. 

Even now he was sore where he plunged into her, from her liquid wax and the mindfuck of the ice; he focussed on that soreness rather than the wonder of being inside her with no barrier between—nothing between. For in the spring he’d offered to give her a child, and she’d looked him in the eye, marched to her bathroom, and binned her pills right then. And now, his Molly, so open to him—lush and tender and trusting—god no, don’t think of that. 

He reached to cup her breasts, to caress and tug at those nipples that might be pale or blood-fuschia or brown, for all he knew. Now that his eyes had got used to the dark, he could make out her silhouette above him, her movements graceful as they rarely were—she’d abandoned self-consciousness here with him, become a truer version of herself. The bloom of pride in his chest, no, too dangerous, he must bite his lip lest he disgrace himself. Focus on the pain. 

“Beg me,” she gasped out; her fingers flicked against his coarse body hair as she pleasured herself. But that was for him to do; he snatched her hand aside and pressed the pad of his thumb to her clit in that way she adored. 

“Please, Mistress. God, please let me come.” He held his belly at a certain tension, just below the point of trembling, where the urge to break could be controlled for a time. But he feared that tiny eternity was near its end. He needed her permission, needed it now.

“How do you want to come?” she panted. “Mm. Harder.”

“Inside you. Please. Oh, please let me come inside you.” He could stay in her for days, knowing that she carried him with her as she moved through London, as she worked beside him in the lab. Stay in her so much longer, if she’d allow him. 

“And why do you want to come inside of me?” she asked, and something in her voice told him in what words she wished to hear his answer.

“Because I love you. I love you, Molly. Please. Please.”

“Come,” she breathed, and drove her nail into his nipple. 

He shouted aloud as he released, barely hearing her sob of completion as he seized her hips and pulled her down tight to take him. He spilled freely into her belly as he’d never done with any other woman, any other person, in all his life. But for Molly he’d tear off a piece of himself, offer it up to her. Whatever she needed. 

She lay quiet on his chest, there in the blackness of his room; her fingers traced the lean hills and valleys of his shoulder. They lay for long minutes, wrapped in contentment, though the rhythm of her heartbeat under his hands was not slowing along with his own. She still seemed excited, even agitated—she was stirring, lifting her face to his—

“I’m pregnant, Sherlock.”

He stayed perfectly still as those quiet words echoed in his soul. His Molly, truly his. And now, this third person, this great new unknown, this future opening before them both. Of course. Of course.

“Marry me?” he said at last, though that was only a formality now, a detail, an outward avowal of a long-surrendered truth. 

“So old fashioned,” she said, a smile in her voice. “Want me to make an honest man of you, then?” 

“Oh, Molly,” he replied, stroking the damp roots of her hair. “Don’t you know? You already have.” She kissed him for answer. Then she shifted, reached, and turned on his bedside light.


End file.
